


the two jakes

by badAquatic, orphan_account



Series: Trailerstuck [12]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Crimes & Criminals, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Flashbacks, Friendship, Hallucinations, Hallucinogens, Illnesses, Illustrated, Immigration & Emigration, Implied Relationships, M/M, Male Bonding, Male Friendship, Nudity, Organized Crime, Poverty, Recreational Drug Use, Single Parents, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:10:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Also known as "Karkat and Jake's Excellent Adventure". </p><p>A Trailerstuck story; takes after "be past dave" and before "three queens".</p>
            </blockquote>





	the two jakes

**Author's Note:**

> For more Trailerstuck art and info, check out bad-imagination.tumblr.com! 8D

**== >Karkat: Be dragged around by one of Dave’s two dads**

You follow Jake out of the trailer. You have no idea what you’re being dragged into but you’re ninety percent sure you won’t enjoy it.

“Is there some reason I have to come along and _not_ Dirk?” you ask.

“I like to check up on our pals but Dirk…” Jake heaves a big sigh, “…I love the man to death but he’s so paranoid about seeming ‘clingy’. A whole bloody story behind that ordeal, but he keeps his distance with everything. Trust me on this my troll chum; Dirk Strider could be dying of ten different terminal illnesses and he’d shrug it off as nothing more than a cold rather than have to depend on someone.”

A muddied and worn pick-up hovertruck sits in the driveway. The back is piled with junk—stuffed lusii, lusii preserved in jars, furs, smuppets, guns, and swords. You’re afraid of getting too close to it for fear of being impaled or something accidentally going off. There’s print on both doors: STRIDER & ENGLISH LUSUS EXTERMINATION SERVICE!—THE SEXIEST MEN FOR THE JOB!  

 

You look over at Jake. “The… _sexiest_ men for the job…?”

“Well, when we first started the business we weren’t the best but we were the sexiest! And we still are!” Jake laughs and slaps you on the back. You nearly fall over.

You climb into the hovertruck. Early morning and you’d rather be sleeping or hiding under Strider’s bed. Your only reassurance is that the creepy clown is still in jail and you’re in the company of a gun-toting human.

Jake starts the car slowly and drives like an old woman, keeping both hands on the wheel at all times. “So,” he says, “how are you and Dave doing? You two must really like each other to get over the whole ‘two different species’ thing.”

Oh my gods. He’s grilling you for information. Well, Dave is technically his son so you should have seen this coming a mile away. You rub the back of your head, feeling your cheeks burn.

“Yeah…” you mutter, “…we’re a weird as fuck pair, I guess.”

“Dave’s always had…issues expressing how he feels. I think that’s part of the reason why Harley and him have so many… _issues_.” Jake looks at your confused face and smiles, “Oh, but don’t let that get you down, grey chum! I’m sure you mean the _world_ to Dave. He just has his own way of saying it; the Strider way. It took me a while to figure out if his brother had amorous intentions towards me or not.”

“Um. Sure. Yeah.”

You have no fucking idea whether you should be up front and admit that Dave and you haven’t been dating in secret or any of that Troll Romeo and Human Juliet bullshit. You’ve been letting him fuck you because of your fertility cycle and you’re only staying at his place because of psycho-clown next door. You have no idea what in fuck you’re going to do next. What if that ironic handsome fuckface wants you to stay?

Stupid. Stupid ironic fuckface is what you meant.

“Is it awkward having sex with a human?” Jake asks, “I know you have those weird tentacles for your manhoods…er, womanhoods? Intersexhoods? How do you consider yourselves men and women? Is it just the breasts or something else?”

Oh gods above and below, you want this conversation to stop right now. This is just as nightmarish as when Cronus and Kankri tried to explain sex to you. Think. Think quickly on how to change the subject for good...

“Hey, how did you even meet Dave’s brother, since he’s so distant?” you ask. Distant and that these two don’t seem like the couple that’d meet during a round of speed dating or at the movies.

Jake puffs out his chest with manly indignation, “Dirk’s not distant. Chap’s just a little on shy side. His father was an utter bastard who thought a man showing emotion meant he was, what the ignorant call, ‘faggy’. Made sure his son acted like a robot of nothing but testosterone and anger until Dirk just left. I would’ve been bloody disgusted with such a man.”

“ _Faggy_?” You’ve never heard that word before. It sounds like one of those terms no one’s said in a thousand years, like ‘bozo’ or ‘mimeograph’. “What does that mean?”

“It means a male who is of the stereotypical homosexual persuasion. You know; like on Fifth Age sitcoms. They’re always knowledgeable about fashion and interior decorating; making catty comments on everything and are promiscuous."

You tilt your head, “… _Nitram_?”

“What? _No_! I mean, _wait_ , all your trolls are intersexual. Can you even be ‘faggy’?” Jake shakes his head, “Bugger all, this conversation is _incredibly_ daft. Moving on—Dirk and I met in the most romantic way possible.”

“Really? I’d like to know about that. Flushed right?” You’re always down for a tale of romance, even if it’s between two human males.

Jake grins widely, “We met in the deepest part of the swamp at midnight, guns a-blazing.”

 

**== >Jake: Regale the young troll with a tale of young love from eight years in the past**

You are Jake English and you have just one shot KO’d a spider crab lusus. With the gaping hole in his cranium, the lusus collapses into the muddy water—sending up a wave. A whimper comes from the little boy in pointy shades, stuck in the clotted mud. He’s quivering and if it weren’t for the fireflies and your flashlight you wouldn’t have seen him at all. You see a man six feet away, leaning on what appears to be a katana.

You twirl your gun around your fingers. “Cheerio chaps! Didn’t expect to encounter neighbors in my neck of the woods!”

The man stares at you, or you assume he’s staring with those dark shades. “Holy fucking shit. What…a _shot._ ”

The boy is still shaking. You walk around the dead lusus to get a closer look at the frightened child. He’s small and pale as snow—an albino mutant. You’ve never seen one in person before but you’ve heard of them, knowing their mutation is concentrated in third world places like Lew. You pat him on the head. He goes still as the grave.

“Hello, little fellow. What’s your name?” You laugh.

He looks up at you and frowns, refusing to say a word. The man hobbles over to you, huffing and puffing. He’s using the katana like a pointy crutch.

“ _Dave_.” he rasps, “His name’s Dave and he…he doesn’t talk. Not to strangers. Only to me…and Rox. He only talks to me and Rox… _fuck_.” He winces and holds onto his lower abdomen.

If this were the average romance you see on television, you would have taken one look at this man and thought he was the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen from the first sight.

But he wasn’t.

This man looked pale and exhausted, wincing with pain every minute. He was wobbling like he was about to fall over any minute now. He smelled of the chemical run-off leaking into the swamp water. The boy, Dave, nervously fidgets with his jacket draw-strings.   

You look at the man, “Are you alright, chap? You look under the weather. Do you need a boost back to your place?”

He shakes his head. “No. No, I’m alright. We can walk back.” Sweat drips down his forehead as he looks at Dave, “You have a lot of fucking explaining to do for pulling shi—”

He pauses, then swoons forward. You rush through the mud and grab him by the waist. He yelps and shudders. The pain must be invigorating because he start thrashing.

“Not there not _fuck don’t touch me there OWWW_ — _”_

You move your hands from his waist to his arm pits to support his weight, “Alright, chap. Calm down. Take a deep breath now. I’m getting my hand off your waist. I’m just going to carry you. Try not to thrash about too much.”

“I don’t need to be carried! I’m fine! I just need to catch my second wind!”

“Now, now; no need to be embarrassed. I do this sort of rescue all the way. _Alley-oop!_ ”

You didn’t give him a chance to complain. You lift and carry him with ease. After all, you’re a huge bloke and he’s more on the skinny side. You can’t put him over your shoulders with all that abdominal pain he’s complaining about, so you do a one person lift. You did it for your grandmother all the time so you’re an expert at it now. You carry him in both your arms and ignore all his protests.

You look down at Dave. “Alright, little chum. Stay close to me and I’ll keep those nasty bugs away. You got it?”

Dave looks up at you and then slowly nods.

“I can walk _fine…_ ” growls the man.

“Didn’t catch your name by the way, fellow.” you say to the man.

“ _Dirk_...” he growls, not looking at you.

“Oh don’t be cross with me, chap. Just let me get to camp and I’ll drive you both back home.”

Dirk grumbles something in a language you don’t understand but most likely it’s an insult. You keep jogging through the swamp. Your camp’s not too far from here. You’ll just pack up your things for the night in the pick-up hovercar and drive these two back. Shouldn’t be complicated in the slightest.

 

**== >Past Jake: Be Present Karkat**

“Of course things got exceedingly complicated after that.” Jake chuckles.

He stops the hovercar in front of a mobilehive surrounded by stray cats. Expensive lingerie hung off the laundry line besides it, twisting in the warm wind.

Jake opens his door. “We get out here.”

“What? You’re just going to stop the story _there?_ ” you huff. You get out the hovercar, “What happened to Dave? Why was he mute? Why was Dirk in pain? You can’t just leave your listeners _hanging_ like that!”

“It keeps them reading though. It’s the mysteries that keep them coming back for more; the things they _don’t_ know.” Jake chuckles.

You glare at him, “That’s a fucking plot-cocktease.”

“No need to fret, my short grey chum. I’m no masochist. All the mysteries will soon be solved and all loose ends neatly tied up.”

Jake strolls up to the front door, which has been painted pink and lavender with plastic jewels placed in patterns. Gods, did someone actually _Bedazzle_ the door? Who in the hell does that? Jake knocks at the door and three paste jewels fall to the ground. A cat rubs against your leg purring and blinking four eyes at you.

“The fuck is up with all these cats?” you mutter.

“Roxy does love her cats.” Jake chuckles. He knocks on the door again, “Roxy? Are you in?”

There is a murmuring from behind the door. Jake shrugs and jiggles the handle. The door opens, “Well, chum, looks like we’re heading inside for some face-to-face fun. By the way: how do trolls feels about human nudity?”

You stare at him, “…uh. I don’t fucking know. How _should_ we feel about it exactly?”

“Good question, chum!”

Jake laughs and enters the trailer calling, “Roxy! Jake here and I’ve brought along a new chum!”

You follow him inside of the trailer and that’s when the smell hits you: cheap flowery perfume and cologne covering up a familiar musky tinge in the air. You swore you’ve seen smelt the perfume before though you’re not sure where. The rest of the trailer is garish—too many cat trees, too much fucking pink and lavender everywhere. There are plants growing on tables, in windowsills, hanging from the ceiling. You’re more surprised it’s not marijuana. You suspect some of its catnip judging from how the cats are rubbing on it.

“Roxy?” Jake calls.

“Just a minute!”

A woman comes flouncing out of a door. Her hair is blonde and her eyes pink.. She looks at Jake and grins.  

“Jake! It’s been a while!” she giggles, “And who’s this little friend?”

You stare, mouth agape. This woman before you— _this grown human woman_ —is wearing high heels, purple-pink striped stockings with a garter, purple gloves, a violet mask with feathers, has a necklace and faux-gold bangles around her wrists and ankles.

And. Nothing. Else.

Jake points to you, “Roxy…we have a _guest_.”

You say nothing. Yes, you’ve seen naked humans before—in Health class—but you’ve never seen the real thing in all its curved detail. Even her pubic hair is clipped into a heart shape. There is a pattern of smiling cats on her gloves. You can’t help but stare at…everything; burning it into your adolescent memory.

Roxy looks down. “Oh! Sorry! Sometimes I forget what I’m wearing when I’m on the job! Just a _minute_ …”

The woman bounces back inside of the room. You shoot Jake a questionable look and the man gives you the same “What’re ya gonna do?” shrug Cronus has given you a thousand times concerning Kankri and his mountain of issues. You give Jake the “WTF?” look you have down pat.

In the back room, you hear soft laughter and then a pleased growl. Roxy comes back out, this time wearing a thin dark purple nightie tied around the waist with a pink strip of cloth.

“There! _Much better!_ ” she says.

No. Not it’s not. Now you’re looking at her heftsacks though a silk curtain.

“Just came by to see how you were doing, Roxy.” Jake says, “Dirk sends his love, by the way.”

Roxy rolls her eyes, “His _pale_ love I’m sure, knowing that man. Every time I hear something about Dirk it’s always through you. How come he never comes to _see_ _me_ anymore? I lived with the man for years and suddenly he’s getting all clammed up!”

“Dirk’s a difficult fellow sometimes but he’s not malicious. Just a bit shy now and then.” Jake chuckles, making sure to keep his gaze away from Roxy’s heftsacks. He points to you, “This is Karkat. Dave’s boyfriend.”

You stare Jake and feel your face heating up. No. No, you are not. You are Strider’s fuck-buddy who moved under his bed. Trolls and humans don’t mingle and they _definitely_ don’t date. You don’t even know what quadrant you would be in since Dave seems to enjoy making you miserable and talking you into doing all sorts of awkward shit while he fucks you.  

“ _Omigosh_! Li’l Davey’s already got a _boyfriend_? He’s growing up so faaast! C’mere you li’l cutie!”

The woman pulls you into a hug and you get a face full of human heftsack. Oh gods. Oh gods they’re so warm and this is so awkward. Oh gods why. What are you even supposed to fucking do now? You’re feeling far too awkward to ever hug her back or move.

“You must mean the world to Davey if he’s dating you! You’re so _brave,_ with your little nubby horns and your _chubbiness_.” Roxy giggles, “Davey’s always liked a little back I think.”

“I am not _chubby_!” you muffle into her heftsacks. You breathe in the perfume around her breasts—roses intermingled with powdery scented notes of vanilla, a citric after-touch that makes you shudder. This is definitely familiar…    

“Alright, Roxy, let go of the poor fellow. You’re scaring him a bit I think.” Jake chuckles.

She lets go of you. You can’t smell anything but vanilla and roses now. “Oh, sorry there!” She looks at Jake, “So what’d you want to say, Jakie?”

“Just wanted to check and see how business was going and making sure there were no problems.”

“Oh, Jake, you’re so sweet. Lemme give you a hug too!”

The two humans hug. You see Jake’s hands move to her waist and she smiles and whispers something you can’t hear. You’ve seen this gesture a hundred times before on the street, especially the closer you get to the East End Hotels or Aniline End.

After that display Jake and you abruptly leave the mobilehive. Jake’s thick fingers flip through a roll of colorful money.

You frown. “You…you’re a _pimp_.”

Jake looks at you, “What? _No_! Chum, you’ve got the wrong idea about Roxy and myself.”

“Do Dirk and Dave know you’re a pimp?”

“I am not a _pimp_!” Jake walks to the hovertruck and climbs in. “Come on now. We got another place to visit.”

“Another one of your happy workers? Is she going to show up naked at the door?” you grunt and get into the passenger’s side.

Jake shuts the driver’s door with a sigh. “Karkat, I am _not_ a _pimp_. I am… _security_ _detail_ for Roxy. I make sure none of her clients beat her up or try to cheat her. She’s not in the friendliest of businesses and sometimes her customers think that because she’s a human woman they can do whatever they want to her.”  

“She paid you in the same way I have seen prostitutes pay pimps on the street.”

“Roxy’s not the sort of woman to accept charity. She won’t let me go unpaid. She doesn’t like others to see her pay me, especially Dirk. They have a…complicated relationship.”

“She sounds like a prostitute and you’re still describing _a pimp_ by the way _._ ”

“Now, now, Karkat. You keep that sass up and I won’t finish my tale of romance and how adorable Dave was as a child.”

“Why _was_ he mute?” you ask.

“Well, let me finish my story.” Jake starts up the hovertruck, “Once I got back to my camp, Dirk was in pretty bad shape with the pain. I had to rely on Dave to show me which way the trailer was. It was pretty chaotic. We almost got lost but Dave had good intuition even as a child.”

**== >Present Karkat: Be Past Jake**

You’ve seen trailers in some shabby conditions but this place is starting to look like your trailer before it started sinking into the mud. The DD must have taken one look at the two—single father and his son?—and stuck them in the any old trailer. You park the truck in the weedy driveway and carry the still irritated man inside. Dave leads you, reminding you of a Lusus-Lassie leading you toward which well Timmy’s trapped in this week. Dave pushes the door open, which wobbles with the threat of falling on him. The inside of the trailer is dark. You have to squint to see where you’re going. The living room is barren—a futon in the living room, a few old swords piled in the corner (that can’t be child friendly), and…some brightly colored plush creature with a long nose and jutting rump. It reminds you of the plush puppetry on Lomax Street. There are melted candles scattered on saucers in the corner of the rooms.    

“J-just set me down on the fucking futon before I fuck fuck _fuuuck—_ ”

“Chum, I think you ought to go to the hospital. You can barely walk and you’re sweating.”

“I’m sweating because a lusus nearly ate my brother _now put me down!_ ”

It’s like handling a snarling dog when it comes to this man. “Down you go then, sir. No need to fuss so loudly.”

You lay Dirk down gently on the futon, which looks hard as a rock and wobbles under his weight. Dave doesn’t stay long in the room. He steps over some scattered plush creatures and walks to the back hallway. You ignore the protesting blonde and follow Dave. He could still be injured or shaken from encountering a lusus that size.

“Hey there. Where are you going, little chum?” you ask.

Dave stands on the tip of his toes and opens a door. He glances at you and then enters the room. Judging from the cot pushed into the corner with old blankets crumpled on it, this is a bedroom. Dave approaches a cardboard box and rustles through it, pulling out clean pants and boxers. He looks at you from over his shoulder and growls.

“Are you sure you don’t need anything?” you ask.

Dave growls. He reaches into another box and pulls out a sword that’s almost as big as him. With grunting effort, he threateningly holds it up—as if he’s going to have scrums with you at this size.

“Reading you loud and clear, little fellow. You want your space.”   

Dave grumbles, still holding the sword. You back out the door and shut the door behind you. You walk back into the living room and see Dirk hasn’t moved. He emits a low, painful moan muffled by the futon cushion. You walk over to him.

“Do you need anything? You’re looking worse for wear, chum.”

“It’s— _fuck—_ fine. I’m just…just resting. Before I go to my room.”

You tilt your head, “Can you even stand?”

“I can stand fine. I’m taking a _hnnn_ breather…”

“At least let me help you to your room then.”

“No! Fuck! Go away!”

“You can’t move!”

“Shit! Get your hands off of me!”

He doesn’t have the energy he had earlier though. It’s less like carrying a rabid cat and more like carrying a wounded animal. You walk around the trailer, carrying this grown man while he growls insults at you in…you’re not sure what that language is. Welsh?  Irish? German? Dutch? It’s been years since you dropped out and you’ve never been good with your language. Hell, it could be _Japanese_ for all you know.

You assume that the second bedroom belongs to the man. It has no more furnishings than Dave’s room. That cot looks none too comfortable but you do notice the little adornments on the wall—plaques and certificate of honor dedicated to one Dirk Strider concerning the martial arts and excelling in different contests. There are boxes of swords here and— _ah_ —this must be the source of all the plush-beasts with the long protruding noses. You can see the fabric and cheap cotton stuffing located in plastic bags.

“Seems like you’re quite the talented chap with the fists.” you say, placing him on the cot.

Dirk winces and grinds his teeth. “You fuckwit. The minute I get up, I’m puttin’ a fuckin’ katana through y’fuckin’ thick skull y’fuckin’ meddler—”  

There’s a low drawl to his voice popping up that you’ve never heard until now. Someone mumbles at the door and you turn around. Dave has changed into a relatively clean, wrinkled hand-me-down shirt and pants that’s two sizes too big for him. He stands in the doorway.

“ _You_.” Dirk gasps, “Nosy fuckin’ Brit. Shut th’ fuckin’ door.”

“But your little broth—”

_“Shut. Th’. Fuckin’. Door!”_

Well, you’re not one to argue with a man within arm’s reach of a sword—no matter how fast you are with the pistols—and you’re not about to have scrums with a sick man either. You walk to the door—and with an apologetic nod to the little fellow—shut it.

You look at Dirk. “Little chap’s just worried about you. Can’t blame him from how you’re acting.” 

“Listen here y’oblivious fuck. There’s shit goin’ on y’doan fuckin’ understand and havin’ y’in here _ain’t helpin’_ in the slightest! Gimme a fuckin’ minute t’catch my breath. _Godsdamn_.”

While Dirk makes a large effort to sit up, things slowly add up in your brain—the hidden accent brought on by anger and stress, the bareness of the trailer, the mutant little boy, and the obvious poverty here compared to the rest of the trailer park. You quirk an eyebrow.

“Immigrant?” you ask.

Dirk finally sits up and leans against the wall.   

“From where? You sounded a bit German back there, or Dutch. Bojangles then? Or Lew?”

The man shakily raises a hand and pulls off the pointy shades. His eyes are tangerine—another mutation that you know comes from humans ingesting soporific herbs and other mutational contaminants. It’s something that can carry through a bloodline for a long time. It’s probably why your kids (if you ever get along to having offspring) will have pink, red, or purple eyes because of your damaged genetics.  

Those mutated eyes are also incredibly enticing to look at.

“Why in th’ fuck should I tell ya, y’nosy fuckin’ prat?” he growls. “I ain’t havin’ a conversation ‘bout this wit’ a glasses wearin’ fuck like _ya_. Listen to me. No, get down on your knees and fuckin’ _listen._ ”

You shrug and walk next to the cot. You get down to your knees. “Alright, chum, but I honestly don’t see why—”

Dirk grabs by the scruff of your shirt with his fingerless gloves. He’s much stronger than he looks, but those muscles he has aren’t for show. He pulls you down so you’re face to face.  

“I-I see you’ve gotten your second wind there.” you say with a nervous little laugh.

Dirk continues to look at you like you’ve just hit his brother upside the head with a cricket bat, “Listen here, y’meddlin’ fuckface. That lil’ guy out there is my brother an’ he fuckin’ depends on me. I am fuckin’ Superkindtroll to him an’ th’ last thing I want him to know is that I’m fuckin’ sick. There’s no orphanage in his future if I get sick an’ die. Y’understand that?”

You nod slowly. “Y-yes; I understand that quite well.”

You really don’t actually. Children without guardians always go to the orphanage or foster homes, even immigrant children. Of course immigrant children were at a disadvantage but they were still _children_.

“So this is what yer gonna do. Yer gonna go out there. Yer gonna tell my brother I’m fine an’ fuckin’ leave my place or I skewer you an’ let th’ goatdiles deal wit’ yer body. _Got it?_ ”

You nod again. “Alright, chum. Whatever you say. Just let me go.”

Dirk glares at you once more time before letting go of your shirt. He collapses back onto the cot, pallid and sweating out whatever illness is coursing through him. You open the door and see Dave isn’t waiting there. You hear a clattering in another room and follow it. You make sure to shutt the door to Dirk’s room behind you.

You find the boy in what looks like the kitchen, bustling about. The cabinets are looking ready to fall down. You notice the bullet holes in the wooden cabinet doors, trailing all along the barren wall. There’s a chill in the air.

Dave is rummaging through the cabinet, standing on a not too sturdy looking chair.

You give a low whistle at the bullet holes. “Looks like the previous owners left quite a mess in here. Think someone was gunned down right where you’re standing?”

Dave looks toward you and scowls.

You chuckle, “Well, those bullet holes weren’t put there for decoration, little fellow. What are you doing in here?”

Dave goes back to the cabinet and pulls out a lighter. He jumps off the wobbling chair and approaches the stove. He fiddles with the lighter and only smiles when the lighter produces a small flame.

You grab Dave’s hand before he can approach the stove. “Whoa! _Whoa_ there! That's not something you want to do!”

Dave growls and tries to tug his hand away from your grip.

“Hey, calm down! Just trying to keep you from getting burned.” you say, “Just, just give me the lighter and—”

Getting the lighter from a little boy should not be as difficult as the next fifteen minutes prove to be. Dave kicks, scratches, bites, headbutts, and punches you all through it but in the end you manage to wrestle the lighter from him. You tuck the boy under your arm, almost not believing how small he is.

You plop him down on the ground. “How old are you anyway? Eight? Nine?”

Dave frowns and walks to the corner of the room. Behind those shades, he’s most likely glaring hatefully at you. You sigh and go to the stove.

“Well, looks like I’m doing the talking for the both of us then.” you say.

You turn on the stove burner. Nothing happens. You shrug and turn that one off. You turn on the second one. Again, nothing happens. No clicking of gas, no blue lights. Nothing.

You sigh and look to Dave, “The burner won’t turn on.”

Dave tilts his head, giving you a “no shit” look.

You walk to the kitchen wall and flick the lights. Two seconds later and you’re still in the dark. You look to Dave again, “The burner won’t turn on because there’s no electricity.”

Dave nods.

“How long has it been this way?”

Dave shrugs.

You sigh, “Of course you wouldn’t know. You’re a little boy.”

Dave grunts something.

You grumble and rub your face. Well, that makes sense as to why the trailer has melted candle stubs and wax everywhere. Oh well; time to make the best of a bad situation then. You walk over to Dave and clasp him on the shoulder. He jumps a little at your touch.

“Alight. How about a nice outdoor barbeque?” you offer, “Your brother’s resting so it’ll just be you and me—though we’ll save plenty of food for him!”

Dave frowns. You grab his hand anyways and drag him to the front door.

“First thing’s first. We’ll need a few things from my truck! Consider yourself drafted into being my little helper!”

Dave grunts again. He eventually tugs his hand away from yours but keeps following.

 

**== >Past Jake: Be Present Karkat**

The hovertruck stops again, this time at a quaint little mobilehive. There are flowers on the windowbox and fine curtained windows in white and red. There’s a garden out front, lined with wire to ward away the tinkerbulls and filled with herbs. Someone has trimmed the bushes into forks and spoons. There is a red and white awning over the doorway and a New Jack City flag standing in the ground.

The whole mobilehive seems a little too sickeningly sweet to be real—something that could only exist in the wholesome setting of a Fifth Age sitcom. You almost want to puke from the sight.

“Who’s this eyesore belong to and why are we stopping here?” you ask Jake.

“Now, Karkat, this trailer belongs to a dear friend of Dirk’s that I’m checking in on.” Jake turns off the hovertruck and opens the door, “Come along now. Oh, and I would cut down on the profanity in the presence of this lady, unless you want a stern lecture or maybe you enjoy being swatted with a mixing spoon.”

“A mixing spoon? What kind of kinky shit are you talking about?” You follow him out of the hovertruck, “I want to know more about what was wrong with Dirk and your barbeque with Dave.”

Jake walks up the stone path and rings the doorbell. It chimes a loud tone that sounds like…an Orthodoxiam hymn? Who in the hell gets a _hymn_ for a _doorbell_?

“Oh the barbeque was nothing to write home about, my grey chum.” he chuckles, “I cooked deer sausage and talked while Dave sat there and watched me like a small owl. Then we ate outside and I talked about the stars and how my dear grandmother taught me all she knew. We spent most of our time together on South Street looking at the stars.”

“South Street? You mean that place that’s sinking into the mud?”

“Oh it wasn’t _always_ like that. It was once a prominent neighborhood, filled with Young British immigrants who hoped for a better life in New Jack City.” He sighs and shrugs, “But Time’s a harsh master. People have moved on and I’m one of the few Young Brits still left in the trailer park.”

The door opens and smoky vanilla incense hits your nostrils. A human woman stands at the door. She’s Jake’s age with dark curled hair and wearing a frilled apron over her light blue dress. Her glasses and face are smeared with flour. Her eyes are a bright blue.

You’re more relieved that she’s wearing clothes, to be honest. 

The woman wipes her hand on her apron and gives Jake a brilliant smile. “ _Jake_! I wasn’t expectin’ to see y’anytime soon. Is Dirk wit’ you?” She looks at you, “Oh, and who’s this li’l fella?”

You can’t place that accent; it’s subtle. Not as thick as some of the immigrants you’ve encountered from Lew, but of someone who’s picked up English as a second language and spent most of their time speaking French or Dutch.

Jake pulls the woman into a hug, “It’s great to see you, Jane. This is Dave’s boyfriend. He’s just riding around with me for a while.”

“Oh how charmin’!” the woman pats you on the cheek, getting flour on your ratty sweater. “I’ll have you know that despite what people may say, I’m an Orthodoxian that’s okay wit’ interspecies relations so there’s nothin’ to worry from me.” She walks back into the mobilehive, “Come in! Come in! I have scones in th’ oven.”

Is everyone Jake and Dirk know a prostitute or crazy?

You walk inside the trailer and, oh gods, that incense is eye-wateringly intense. There are Signless symbols hanging on the wall—in wood, metal, colorful plastic, cheap stone inlaid with fake jewels. There are figurines on the dresser of the Signless as a human, bound by metal cuffs with an arrow sticking out of his hand. The Signless as a troll painted on a wall scroll, bleeding out as the Disciple and Dolorosa the Virgin Mother hold him close.  

 

Your skin crawls at the sight of your grandfather like this. You scrub your eyes from the smoky incense and try to focus on something else in the mobile hive.

Of course the first thing that anyone who enters this home sees is the cupboard shrine. You’ve seen them before in Orthodoxian churches, back when your mother tried to encourage your family to attend. They’re reserved for the revered and most important dead—treasured members of the church. There’s always a portrait of them in fancy dress, with the symbols of their patron gods hanging in colored banners in the shrine.

The freckled face in the shrine stands out though. There’s just something about it you can’t quite put your finger on…

Jane pokes her head out of the kitchen, “Oh, do you like the picture? That’s my Johnny when he was seventeen. He’s quite th’ charmer isn’t he? My li’l John looks jus’ like him now. He’s always on stage breakin’ all th’ girl’s hearts with jus’ a single look.”

“ _Li’l_ …John?” You look at the picture again and add it up—the huge buckteeth. The goofy grin. The wild hair. You look back at Jane and realize you’ve seen those blue eyes before. “You’re…John Egbert’s _mother_?”

Jane laughs. “Oh yes. That’s my Johnny.”

You look at Jane and then look back to the picture. Yeah, the Egbert goofiness just _radiates_ from that photo. That’s the only explanation as to how in fuck did this lady produce a showboating, attention hogging, goofball like Egbert.

“What flavor scones do you have today?” Jake asks.

“Cinnamon sugar scones, lemon tea, clotted cream and jam as always. Jus’ a li’l something I whipped up on the side. Well don’t jus’ stand there like two bumps on a log! Come on into th’ kitchen.”

The kitchen is a temporary relief from the incense. There are plants hanging from the ceiling in pots, vines and leaves spilling over terracotta edges. You don’t recognize half of the plants here. The air is warm and smells strongly of butter and sugar. The scones sitting on the table look nothing like the scones you’ve seen in the Shop Rite bakery and more like the really long frybread you’ve seen at the Mirth Gras carnivals. Besides it on the plate is a large dollop of butter and jam. There are three cups of tea sitting on the table.

Jake sits at the table and takes a whiff of the teacup’s contents, “Cream tea?”

Jane smiles and sits at the table. You sit between the two humans. She smiles at Jake. “Oh, its nothin’ special, Jake. Jus’ somethin’ from th’ garden.”

You sniff the tea. You never really developed the taste for it like Terezi but it smells sweet at least and the “scones” obviously loaded with butter and sugar. Why is there a side of butter and jam to this calorie loaded montrosity? That’s just tempting the diabetes demons, you think.

You put the teacup to your lips but Jake kicks you in the ankle. You put down the cup and glare at him. Jake tilts his head in the other direction and you look at Jane, whose hands are clasped in prayer.

“Come, Lord Signless, be our guest; blessed be the god who is our bread.” she says, “May all the world be clothed and fed. Bless our loved ones everywhere and keep them in thy loving care. Amen.”

Oh gods. You’ve heard stories about Egbert’s mother but you assumed they were exaggerated by the usual waving tongues of high school gossips. You never had the taste for religion, especially Orthodoxian. It’s the reason you keep your _authentic_ amulet tucked inside your sweater instead of proudly on display for the world to assume you’re buying into the False Emperor’s written lies.

Jake covers you though by saying “Amen” as bright and cheerfully as possible before diving into conversation. “How have you been, Jane? Feels like it’s been ages since it’s just been you and me talking.”

The woman hefts a knife and cuts the scone into quarters. She portions it out, giving you three slices with a pat of butter and jam. She does this without even looking at her fingers deftly moving. This is a woman who’d know her way around a kitchen blindfolded.

“It definitely feels that way.” Jane smiles, “At least we’re talkin’ now, JAke. How are things wit’ Dirk? He’s so distant it’s hard to know what’s goin’ on in his head sometimes.”   

“He doesn’t mean it.” Jake says, adding jam to his slice of scone. “You know Dirk’s a good fellow. He just has a habit of not wanting to immediately admit how he feels. I was just telling Karkat here about how we met.”

“Oh, that old yarn?” Jane chuckles, “Did you tell him about how he nearly killed you two times?”

Jake laughs, “It was _three_ _times_ and he only scraped me a bit. Yes, things were a little tense in the beginning. It took him a whole year to trust me enough to watch Dave on my own.”

“How long until Dave started speaking?” you ask. You bite into the scone and taste the flood of sugary dough and butter. Why would anyone add jam to this, or butter, or _anything_? You’re pretty sure adding butter would result in your heart going “NOPE.” followed by your arteries exploding.

Jake smiles, “That was more a process. I wasn’t the only one he wasn’t talking to.”

Jane sighs, “Dave used to be a little… _difficult_ to deal with when he was younger. He wasn’t sociable with anyone…”

“Now we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Karkat’s still at the beginning of the story. You start throwing in other little details and you’re going to get him all mixed up.” Jake says.

“You’ve been running this story at a snail’s pace and it sounds like a _long one._ ” you grunt, “We’re talking about eight years here.”

“I’ll skip ahead in some parts. Nothing to worry about, chap.” you say.

“I’d love to hear th’ story.” Jane says, “Dirk never talks about how you two met.”

“Fellow’s always embarrassed about how he acted in the beginning.” Jake looks at you, “Now, where were we…?”

“Deer sausage with mute little Dave outside the dark trailer.” You’re still working your way through this scone. You can just hear your blood sugar level rising just from looking at the rest of the scone. There’s still a lot left and plenty of story to tell you’re sure.

“Right.” Jake says, “Well, I stayed the night and camped out on the futon and let me tell you now: I’ve slept on ground that wasn’t as hard as that futon was. It was a rough night but I soldiered on through it, though I wasn’t prepared for what came that morning.”

 

**== >Present Karkat: Be Past Jake**

Steel is pressed against your throat. You open your eyelids and see Dirk standing over you. He’s looking considerably better than yesterday—less pale and sweaty, no longer doubled over in abdominal pain. He also has a katana blade pressed against your throat and from that frown he’s not thinking about giving you a shave.

You smile, “You seem to be doing better, chum.”

“I thought I told you to get out.” Dirk says.

“I would enjoy nothing more than to leave your cold and dark domicile but your brother was hungry,” you say, “I couldn’t leave a child alone and hungry and call myself a proper gentleman.”

You can’t see his eyes behind his pointy shades. He grumbles and slides the sword away from your throat. He doesn’t sheathe it; just holds it close. As if he’s waiting for the right opportunity to gut you.  

“What exactly do you want here?” he asks, “I don’t have money or anything of value for you to steal.”

You sit up. “Sir, if I was a thief you’d already have a bullet in your head. Once I’d found out where you lived, I would have left you in the swamp to die. I know enough about the world to know who, how, and when to steal, my good sir, so there are no worries on that front. If I haven’t done it now, it shall not happen at all, _good sir_.”

Dirk rubs his thumb up and down along the katana handle. “So what exactly do you want? Only ex-cons and addicts live in the swamps.”

You stand up, “Now sir, while I’d defend to the death your right to state your opinions, you’re gravely misinformed! I consider myself an explorer of the wilderness and of course there’s no rent or electricity to eat away at what few boons I possess out in the swamps.” You gesture to the cold, dark trailer. “Which you seem to be having trouble with, boons and rent that is.”

“Are you saying I can’t take care of my brother?” There’s a dangerous edge to his voice.

“No.” you say, “What I’m saying, good sir—as politely as I can, with all due respect for your situation—is that you’re doing a rather crummy job of it at the moment. You’re obviously sick but you refuse to let anyone else watch him. You let him play with lighters and leave him in a dark home. If this is supposed to be good guardianship, I shudder to think of—”

You don’t see the fist but you feel it in your stomach. You growl and slug him across the face. His shades go flying and clatter on the ground. You’re no stranger to scrums and he’s not injured anymore if he’s walking about.

The look in Dirk’s amber eyes is murderous.

You grin at him. “ _Good sir,_ you have no idea with _whom_ you are tangling with!”  

You do love yourself a good round of fisticuffs, even if it’s with a sword wielding blonde with mutated eyes. It doesn’t matter though. This is considerably less about being two gentlemen having fisticuffs over criticism of child rearing and more about earning your pride back. They bloody well don’t call you the Fighting Young British for playing curling, after all! You’ve got a lineage to do justice!  

The two of you roll on the hard wood floor. You knock over an end table. A lamp with a bare bulb crashes to the ground. No big loss. It didn’t have much use without electricity, outside of being a bludgeoning tool. You manage to climb on top of Dirk and get him into a chokehold. Your strength lies in wrestling after wrangling swampbeasts, from goatdiles to crab lusii. Dirk grunts and you feel him trying to stand—probably so he can get in position to judo-flip you.

“Get off me you hairy fucker!”

“ _You’re_ the one causing a problem here! I’ve been nothing but friendly!”

Small footsteps shuffle around and Dirk’s movement stills. You feel the sweat run on his skin. You have a fist full of his blonde hair. You notice he smells like ginger and salt.

Dave walks into the room, wearing a ragged hoodie and wrinkled pants. He doesn’t even look at the two men wrestling on the ground. He walk to the door and grabs the knob.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Dirk asks.

Dave looks at him and gesture to the door.

Dirk’s elbow nudges you in the waist, “Hey, grizzly man. Let me go. I’ve got _actual_ important things to do.”

You grumble and release the man. “I consider this a win in my fisticuff annals since I pinned you.”

Dirk rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” he grunts as he stands and walks over to Dave. “Are you going to school?”

Dave mutters something you can’t hear.

Dirk sighs, “Listen, you can’t.”

More mumbling,

“Well for one thing those clothes haven’t been washed yet and you smell like a pile of socks that’s been sitting in pickled onions. You need a bath little man.”

Dave groans.

Dirk sighs, “Man up. The water’s going to be cold for a while. Take a bath, wait for the laundry, and go to school or _don’t go at all._ ”

Dave growls and walks away from the door. He mutters again.

“I _heard_ that and I thought I told Roxy not to say those words around you.” Dirk grumbles.

A bedroom door loudly slamming is Dave’s response. Dirk rubs his forehead with his palm. He doesn’t look at you, “I already have enough on my plate. I don’t need some Young Brit trying to strife me while I’m dealing with a moody nine-year-old and not having any power in my fucking _trailer_.”

“Why not send him to your parents if he’s giving you such a hard time?” you ask, “Oh…wait…are they out of the country? And what’s wrong with the electricity? Is the fuse blown?”

Dirk glares at you, “How dense are you? No seriously. Did you fall off a cabbage truck and crack your skull open?”

“What does cabbage have to do with it?”

Dirk pauses and grumbles. He’s patting his shirt, like he’s searching for something. “Its…it’s something we’d say back home. Fuck, I’m out of cigs.”

“You shouldn’t smoke around children.”

“It’s not tobacco, dumbass. What are you still doing here?”

“Considering how much pain you were in last night, I think you should consult a physician. It could be something seriously wrong with you. What if it’s your gallbladder acting up or your kidneys?”

“You think I have money for a doctor when I can’t afford to keep the lights on? I’ve had it worse than this.” He holds up an arm knotted with fading scars, “Or have you not noticed _this_ either? Just who in the fuck do you think you are?”

You get off the ground and look in those mutant eyes, “Sir, I am Jake English, and what I always do first is help those who need it. And you obviously need it—whether you like to admit it or not. I’m sure there’s a free clinic you could go to—”

“Saying something’s a free clinic is an oxymoron in New Jack City. Everything costs money and when you don’t have vouchers, you have to pay out of pocket. It’s not a huge problem. It’ll solve itself. In the meantime, I need to just focus on getting back to work.”

“Any reason you can’t work _now_ or is this also the domain of that problem that’s supposedly solving itself?”

Dirk doesn’t answer you. He’s looking at his shades lying on the ground. He’s glaring at it, eyes narrowed. He wants to pick it up but he’s not moving for it.

Unless he can’t pick it up because that would involve bending over, which may now be impossible because of the pain in his waist. You grumble and walk over to the shades.

You pick them up and hand them to Dirk. “Here.”

Dirk glares at you. You sigh, “Now, _honestly_ , you can’t think I’m offering you poison or that I somehow magically wired your pointy shades to explode in the past three seconds.”

The man looks at you and then looks at the shades. With a scowl, he snatches them from your hand and puts them on.

“You want to stay? You want to be a pain in my ass? Fine.” Dirk growls, “Rule one—you touch Dave and I cut your balls off without a second thought.”

“Why would I touch your brother?”

“You’re an idiot aren’t you? Rule two—you sleep outside. The last thing I want is for the DD to think I’m housing another tenant. He’ll jack up the rent even more than it is now. Rule three—this isn’t charity. You want to stay here? You have to pull your weight. Rule four— _get off my fucking back._ Understand?”

“Agreed. I could use something to do during the day. You look like your kitchen could use some a working over; some real carpentry. You’re lucky my sweet grandmother nearly broke my back working around her trailer.”

Dirk grinds his teeth, “Rule five! Don’t touch anyt—”

He wobbles and oh bollock he’s going to tip over! You run forward and manage to catch him before he hits the floor. Dirk is gasping for air, going pale once more. You sigh and lift him, preparing to carry him back to his bedroom. This is definitely going to take some getting used to but it’s not the most difficult situation you’ve lived in.

To quote your late, dear mother, “Best to keep a stiff upper lip and soldier on through it.”

So you do.  

**== >Past Jake: Be Present Karkat **

You’ve eaten so many scones you’re sure you’re fifty percent sugar and butter by now. Jake’s polished down more than you. It makes sense why he’s constantly working out and running around. If he didn’t do that, this food would turn him into a giant mushy blob. He sips tea while Jane busies herself around the kitchen—mixed flour, reading off ingredients, and watering plants. The iHusk docking station on the counter hums an Orthodoxian hymn with reverence for the sacrifice of the Signless. You’re not sure if you’ve stepped into a church or a bakery.

“So, you’re telling me,” you say to Jake, “that when you and Dirk met, he cursed at you, insulted you, threatened to kill you, almost succeeded, and yet you were in love with him?”

“Yes to the first and no to the second.” Jake responds, “Love isn’t always instant Karkat. Sometimes love is brought to a slow boil—something that develops over time. Loyalty to someone, compassion, or even something as simple as sympathy can bring about the first stirrings of love. What I felt at that time was more pity for the situation the two were in.”

“Oh, we were a pathetic lot back then.” Jane adds.

You wonder if you’re listening to the special anniversary edition of the story with commentary by a third party.

She continues, “We didn’t have two booncoins to rub t’gether and we were so sad we couldn’t live t’gether or see each other regularly. Jus’ a bunch of immigrants who couldn’t get no help from nobody cause we didn’t have our papers.”

Jane heaves a big sigh, “Those were th’ loneliest of days. Bein’ in a big ol’ city like New Jack and not knowin’ a single soul outside of our own. It’s why I got involved in th’ church. Churches are where ev’rybody knows your name y’know.” She looks at you over your shoulder, “Are you baptized?”

 _“Um…”_ is your honest answer because you have no idea. Religion was never your family’s strong point. Your know Kankri wanted you baptized Orthodoxian for “protection” (whatever that meant) and your grandfather threatened to cleave his skull in with an iron poker if he “made his grandson part of that heathen religion based on a heap of lies and hoofbeastshit”.

Jake saves your skin though with friendly laughter, “Jane, don’t pressure the boy. He’s a troll. They have all sorts of religions they probably belong to. Plus your church is rather massive.”

Jane smiles, “It’s th’ nicest church in all of New Jack. Tourists all th’ way from th’ Summersend Archipelago come here to see it.”

You look at Jake, “So when did you two actually fall in love?” You’re listening to this long winded story for the godsdamned romance aspect too and it hasn’t shown its red head yet.  

Jake smiles, “Not long, actually.  Four days went by. Dirk and I spoke but our conversation was mostly interchanging little barbs and jibes at each other. And when we had a long conversation it was with our fists. Verbally the topic was always the same: Dirk wanting me out of his trailer, telling me to stop meddling and hovering over Dave, when he wasn’t locked in his room not wanting to admit he was sick. It was very much like being in a cold war but I did enjoy little things—like being around other people even though one of them didn’t talk and the other was being passive-aggressive.

“To be completely honest, I wasn’t there for Dirk but for Dave. My heart goes out to children in peril and I was frightened that Dirk would die and leave the boy all alone. He needed someone to look after him, the shy little fellow.”

You look at Jane, “Where were you and Roxy during this time?”

Jane makes a small _tsk tsk_ noise. “Oh, we were both single mothers and immigrants at that. We couldn’t get city-state aid until our papers came through so we worked what jobs we could. This was before we had our little work-from-home businesses goin’. We worked in th’ garment industry; sewin’ clothes, dying wool, sweepin’ up fabric. I’d work one shift, Roxy would watch Rose and li’l Johnny. She’d work another shift, I’d watch th’ children then. We couldn’t afford to live together and we lived quite th’ distance apart so it was tiresome from a day to day basis. We did it for our darlings though.”

“Karkat,” asks Jake, “do you remember any of this? Dave as a youngster I mean.”

You shake your head, “I…I never really hung around humans. I mean, yeah, they were there in school but I never talked with them at length until Dave and I…started to. Y’know…”

“Y’know” translating out to whatever you were doing with Dave. Were you boyfriends now? You’ve practically moved under his bed by now. You don’t want to dwell on it.

“So when did the change happen between Dirk and you?” you ask, jumping from that topic of Strider and yourself.

“Well, four days later, it was close to midnight.” Jake begins, “I was sleeping in the tent I pitched n the backyard…”

 

**== >Present Karkat: Be Past Jake**

You are Jake eight years in the past and you are in a deep comfortable sleep, snuggled in your sleeping back, when you feel something shaking you.

You murmur and sit up. “Hm? What? Who’s there?”

A small hand pulls on your shirt. Dave is sitting next to you. He’s frowning and looking up at you. You grope in the near-darkness for your glasses and put them on.

“Dave? What’s wrong? You know your brother throws a fit if you don’t stay inside the house at night.” you say.

Dave mumbles.

“Dave, you know for the life of me I can’t understand you’re muttering. It’s like trying to decipher a gargled radi—”

“ _Bro_.” The voice is small and firm. There’s not as much pitch to it; it’s a little deep and growly for a nine year old.

You blink. “What about Bro…?”

Dave tugs at your hand, trying to lead you out of the tent. “Sick. Bro’s _sick._ ”

“Well, I know that. He’s been si—”

“Bro’s! _SICK!”_ Dave repeats, with loud urgency.

You nod, “Alright. Take me to him.”

Dave has death grip on your hand as you’re lead back inside the trailer. The electricity hasn’t returned but you’ve taught Dave and Dirk how to keep warm in autumn weather. You’ll only need to start worrying as winter creeps in. The boy drags you to the door of Dirk’s room. You hear a loud moan and gagging on the other side. Dave lets go of your hand and scurries off.

You try to open the door but it’s locked. You try to force it open but bollocks, that’s a damn fine lock on this door. You don’t think you can just bust it open—not without getting a chair or a piece of piping at the least...

Dave comes back. He holds up a pack; a thick plastic sheet bundled up and tied with a piece of twine. You stare at it. “…where did you find that?”

Dave shrugs. “Truck.”

You glare at him, “You’re not supposed to be rooting around in there. There’s things in that truck that are bad for little boys.” Dave shrugs again. You take the pack, “How do you know what this _is_?”

Dave frowns. “TV.”

Of course it would be television—the great equalizer. You unfold the pack, filled with lock picks of all shapes and sizes. Your fingertips are filled with volumes of knowledge; just a brief search in your cranium and you can recall how to perform your tricks. How to prepare a syringe. How to stir a good stew. How to spread paint smoothly along the skin. How to gut and prepare an Eldritch Night pumpkin. How to skin a lusus and transform it into a furry blanket.

In your opinion, bedroom locks are always the easiest. People always guard the front and back doors well and forget about the rest of the house—especially where the valuable are most likely kept. Hell, you could pick a bedroom lock blindfolded and with the pick clutched in your teeth.

You work the lock and say to Dave, “This stays between the two of us.” You turn the knob, “Alright. Stay back. He sees you and he’ll freak out.”

Dave nods and keeps his distance from the door. You enter the bedroom and the sour smell of bile stings your nostrils. Dirk is clinging to the bed, half slumped off of it. One hand is holding onto a bucket, most likely the source of the smell. His other hand clutches his lower left flank.

You give a low whistle, like you’re looking at a wounded animal you just stumbled upon. You shut the door and walk over to them an, “Holy Signless, chum…looks like Death warmed you over not too long ago.”

Dirk’s response is another moan. You grab his arm and heft him up, avoiding the vomit on the bed and floor. He’s slick with sweat but not warm to the touch, so he’s not feverish. You grab a pillow pushed into the corner of the bed and roll it up; placing it under his abdomen. Dirk whimpers and you feel his shoulder muscles tighten. You stroke his spine in long gentle rubs.  You may be a dropout but you know enough about the human body that back rubs ease pain.

You don’t know how long you stay with him like this. He vomits two times, choking up yellow-green bile. You try to tilt his head toward the bucket, but it usually ends up on the floor as steering someone’s head like this is nigh impossible.

“We need to take you to the hospital.”

Dirk shakes his head and gargles, “N-no…can’t afford…” He takes a deep breath, “Can’t afford it. I just…just have kidney stones. Normal.” Another deep breath before he croaks, “This…is normal. Just going through the motions…”

Kidney stones? You feel your own abdomen contract from the _thought_ of suffering through that. “How much water have you been drinking?” Dirk attempts to shrug and you sigh, “I’ll get you some water them; a lot of it. If you’re this sick, you’re not getting enough water in your kidneys to help with the stones.”

Normally you’d apply heat to a pain like this but the electricity’s still out; you’re going to have to find another way to manage this. After all, part of being a gentlemen is helping people—even when it comes to something that turns your stomach.

Things don’t settle down until midmorning. You don’t shut your eyes for a minute. The air inside the room is acerbic and stinks of blood. Dirk is wheezing for air, his head resting in your lap. Your pants are soaked with bile and saliva. His eyes are looking less glassy now. After several hours, his hand relaxes and retracts from the trenches he’s dug in your arm.

“M’sorry…” he murmurs.

You shake your head. “No problem, chap. Let’s just clean things up a bit and worry about it later.”

Dirk nods, far too exhausted to argue with you. You’ve carried him several times before but this trip to the bathroom feels considerably more awkward. The discomfort does not ease once you strip Dirk of his stained and sweaty clothes. There’s a distinct flush to his face as you help into the tub and fill it with water. You try not to feel embarrassed yourself but five minutes into washing blood and vomit off of Dirk and your cheeks are burning.

This is disgusting. This is weird and disgusting and you honestly shouldn’t be rubbing on the smooth skin sticking out of a sea of scars.

Its awkward and silent for four minutes before Dirk croaks, “So…why? Why stay? Why…do this? And don’t give me any of that…’gentleman’ shit. People don’t help for free. Not in these days. Not in this city.”

You glimpse at Dirk’s face. Its expression reads confusion crossed with irritation, perhaps directed at himself for his body’s moment of failure. You rinse out the washcloth and go back to scrubbing the remaining sticky bile off his stomach.

“Guilt.” you admit in a low whisper.

“Guilt?” Dirk echoes.

“Yes. I spent my time as a young lad being a terror, a young punk, and a spoilt over-privileged brat. I ruined the livelihood of my family and broke treasured promises that were to last two lifetimes; and in my rebellious fervor, I killed someone who was most dear to me. Something I will never forgive myself for. So now I dedicate my life to erasing that wrong I committed.”

Dirk looks at you and then…laughs. And for the first time, he gives you a weary smile. “And here I kept wondering if you were some perfect archangel here to punish me for all the mistakes _I_ did.”

You should feel insulted at a man having giggles after admitting to your personal pain and failings. Instead, you laugh back, “Dirk, I am far from perfect _or_ an angel! You wouldn’t _believe_ the things I’ve done!”

Your laughter shatters the tension and distrust that had been building over these past days.

 

**== >Past Jake: Be Present Karkat**

 

“—and then we had the sloppiest of make outs.” Jake concludes.

“ _Ew_.” is your response. Jake frowns and you add, “Oh no. It’s not cause you’re both guys or that you’re both humans. It’s just…well, you’re Dave’s _dads._ It’s weird to hear about you two making out, no matter how much moisture’s involved.”

“Why? I thought you trolls could have intercourse with your predecessors and there wouldn’t be a problem, genetically and socially speaking.” Jake says.

“Yeah, that’s cause we’re aliens and…genetically dissimilar or some shit. Kanaya or Horuss would know all about it, but it doesn’t mean we’re not weirded out by the idea of our parents having _sex_.”

Jane chuckles and gently plucks the buds off a small pot of green herbs. “If it weren’t for that, Karkat, none of us would be here right now. Pleasurable sex is a gift from th’ gods th’mselves.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be an uptight prude about things like that?” you ask.

Jane’s face is almost hidden behind a crop of thin leafy vines. You have to squint to see the smile, “There’s nothin’ in th’ Tome that’s against sex. That’s th’ words of stringent priests an’ people manipulatin’ what’s in th’ good book. Now, I may not be fond of your street walkers, pimps, and underage people having intercourse but that doesn’t mean I’m against intimacy, passion, and love. Even your pitch quadrant is a form of love.”

She puts down the metal tweezers and holds up the cup that she’s collected the buds in, “Perhaps you should come to my church. Our minister doesn’t misconstrue th’ Tome with a whole lot of political gobbledygook.”

“Uh…” Oh gods, this is worse than that time Feferi was trying to talk you into going to her church if only because it would encourage Sollux to come along without snarling.

Jake stands, “Well, I’d hate to cut this visit late but we have one last visit to make. Right, Karkat?”

Oh thank the gods for the English; you could fucking kiss the man right now. You stand and nod to Jane. “Yeah, we better go. Don’t want to be late. Thanks for the scones.”

Jane smiles, “Cookin’ for company never trouble me. Th’ blessin’ of food and preparin’ meals is to share it wit’ those who are most important to you, whether it’s your family…or just some really good friends.”

Jake nods. “I would drink to that proverb, Jane.”

You would too. It’d probably be the only proverb you’d ever drink to. Jane smiles at you and returns to her cooking while Jake and you head outside and back to the truck.

“The stories about her made her seem like some kind of Tome thumping maniac who’d smack your glute with a spoon if you said one bad thing about the Signless in her home.” you say.

Jake rolls his eyes, “You kids and your exaggerations. Jane is the sweetest woman I know and she’d never have the heart to hit anyone, let alone a child. I know she could never hit John no matter how badly he acted up sometimes; reminds her too much of his father. It’s a shame he’s dead. He sounded like a nice chap from what Jane told me; always full of laughter and boundless creativity. He wanted to become a stage magician.”

“What happened to his father?”

Jake climbs inside the hovertruck, “I wouldn’t know. Jane ends up bursting into tears whenever he’s mentioned, though supposedly Roxy was there. Roxy gets even more upset when I ask her though. My theory so far is that it was probably an on-stage accident. Those stage magicians do all sorts of things that could get them killed without the audience knowing—bullet catches, underwater straitjacket escapes, swimming in tanks of piranhas...”

You shudder and get inside the trunk. You shut the passenger’s door. “Alright. Answer this question then—what did you do that was so _bad_?”

Jake frowns. “It’s not something I enjoy discussing.”

“Oh _come_ _on_!” you groan, “You tell me all these details about how sick Dirk was and how adorable Dave was as a little kid and you’re going to leave out that juicy detail? You even told me how Dirk and you made out even though he was gross after being all sick!”

“Bodies are gross in general when you think about it, my grey chum.” Jake turns the ignition key, “Passion still strikes us despite that.”

“So what exactly made him so attractive during… _that_ particular moment?”

“I think…” Jake drums his thick fingers on his chin, “…I think it was because we were both on the same level for once. I’m very aggressive when I help people. Dirk says I often jump straight into ‘hero mode’ and don’t consider others. I dwarf them and it can make them feel uncomfortable, distrustful, or uneasy. I thought I was being helpful as possible though and not making a grab for power or demanding hero worship. My…confession took me off the pedestal. We were equals and…he started to learn to trust me.”

You raise your eyebrow, “You figured that all out on your own? No offense, but your younger self seems _way_ too dense for that.”

Jake laughs. “Oh yes, I was pretty dense back then. And no—Dirk screamed those facts at me enough times when we first started dating. After two years, it finally sunk in.”

It figures. You look down the empty road of cracked pavement and garbage blowing in the wind, “So who are we going to see now? More lady friends of Dirk’s?”

Jake shakes his head, “No. Just…a friend of mine. An associate.”

There’s no smile on Jake’s face as he says this. The hovertruck peters down the road. Jake’s green eyes stare ahead. You’ve never seen this look on his face—concentrated and serious. Usually he’s a man full of big laughs and eager for adventure. Now he’s solemn and as internally contemplative as Dirk. Who are you going to see? Some ailing relative? An ex-con pal who just got out? You don’t ask for a conclusion to the nostalgic stories. You’re too spooked out by the sudden change in mood.

He drives over to the next street. The mobilehive has car parts on the front lawn in numerous phases of repair and disassembly. Sitting on the porch is an old man whose face is well creased and worn like a fine leather wallet. He rocks back and forth in a rocking chair with a rifle splayed across his lap. He’s bald on top and his moustache is ridiculously long and curly. His glasses are square. He looks like a caricature of an old man from the Fourth Age.

Jake parks the hovertruck at the curb. He takes a deep breath and drums his fingers on the wheel, scrubbing on his forehead. He’s not going anywhere in a hurry.

“Do you want me to get out first…?” you ponder outloud.

“No.” Jake replies, his tone even. “He’s not…fond of trolls. For various reasons. I’m pretty sure he’ll consider shooting you on sight.”

“What about you?”

“There’s a reason this truck is so battered.”

That’s not very promising then. You look at the old man, who is still rocking away. “Who is he?”

“An associate of mine.”

“He looks less friendly than most ‘associates’.”

“I should just go.” Jake rubs his face, “I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have brought you along. What in bloody hell was going through my skull? Dragging you _here_ of all places?”

“What’s wrong with here? Seems like an okay place. Maybe a few too many dogs and car parts but it’s not _terrible_ like Two Boot Drive.”

Jake is fiddling with the ignition key. Sweat dots his face, “I should go. I’ll just come back tomorrow.”

“Jake.” You touch his wrist and feel it jump a little in your light grasp, “I’m pretty sure you know that you have to face down what scares you sooner or later. Hell, you kill lusii for a living. Now all of a sudden you’re scared to confront an old man about…whatever you’re going to talk about?”

Jake withdraws his hand from yours. He takes a deep breath and nods, “Right. Right. Best to be Young British. Stiff upper lip and all that.” He opens the door. “Carpe diem.” he mutters as he steps out of the hovertruck.

You scoot over to the driver’s side so you can watch.

Jake strolls up to the porch. The first step away from the hovertruck he’s confidants and walks with an arrogant “can’t keep this mothefucker down” stride. Two steps away from the porch and he’s bent over, his head angled to the ground—like he’s trying to shrink into himself. He steps onto the porch.

The two men seem to be talking normally.

Twenty minutes later, the old man socks Jake right across the face. You jump in your seat and wince as Jake stumbles back from the force of the punch. Jake nods and quickly retreats to the car. You duck down and scoot back to the passenger’s side.

Jake gets back into the car and— _holy fuc_ k—there is a giant bruise on his face. That man may be seventy years old but he must have the strength of an ox-lusus to be able to bruise someone as muscular as English. Then again, you didn’t see English looking eager to brawl, as he usually is.

Jake rubs the bruise and winces. He grunts, “Well…bollocks’d that time up too.”

“You gonna clue me in one what happened there or should I just play a guessing game?” you asks.

“Mr. Harley and I…have a severe disagreement, spanning over many years. It…it ties into…what I did.” English turns on the engine, “Best to go now before he gets the rifle. The man may be old but he’s a crack shot.”

You feel the hovercar vibrates and slowly make its way down the road. You don’t know where Jake is taking you now but it’s definitely not in the direction of Strider’s place. It’s late morning and you’ve already met three new people, learned about the courtship rituals of two manly men obsessed with weaponry, and uncovered a bit more about Jake English.

“Mr. Harley? Like… _Jade_ Harley?” You pause, “That man is…Jade’s _grandfather_?”

Jake nods.

“So. You and Mr. Harley have a disagreement. Over _what_ exactly?”

Jake doesn’t respond.

He takes you to Blank Park, which is at the edge of your neighborhood. He kills the engine and he sits back in his seat, staring down the road. You’re both silent. You wonder if all of Dirk’s previous boyfriends, girlfriends, or fuck buddies had to go through this with Jake. Maybe it’s because you’re a troll and you get special “awkward moments with Dad No. 2” privileges. Wonderful.

“I…” Jake swallows. He takes a deep breath, “I was a selfish prick, a spoiled over-privileged hooligan, and…and drug addict.”  

The statement hangs above your head. Those words…those word simply do not…you feel your brain ice over. You could believe those two previous statement but not the latter. You look at Jake English and you don’t see a drug addict in any way, shape, or form. Addicts are always strung out after they get clean—with tract lines running down their arms or bags under their eyes for miles. This man still looks to be in the prime of his youth. He couldn’t be a day past…what? Thirty? You’re not sure. He’s in better shape than your parents could ever hope to be.  

There’s no way in fuck this guy was an addict.   

“What.” is your always enlightening response.  

Jake nods. “Yes, it’s true. I was a drug addict for many years, from the tender age of fifteen unto twenty-two, my companions and I abused drugs and we did with such…reverence. Such gusto. We bragged to each other how much fun we had when we were high and how enjoyable it was to steal from our parents and piss away their money on hours of joy and mania. We were…well, we were selfish little bastards.

“We had grown up upper class and so very privileged. We had warmblood maids, coldblood bodyguards, white carapace governesses, crocodile cooks, black carapace seamstresses, salamander caddies, iguana limo drivers, turtle mechanics, and we were never want for anything in the world.

 

“And we _despised_ it, as if the silver spoons in our mouths were the foulest arsenic—from boarding schools, to cotillion balls, to rigorous entrance exams for top tier universities and private colleges. _We hated it. Loathed it._ We wanted rebellion; wanted to tune in and drop out of all of it; to erase what we considered meaningless and rewrite our own existence using ink distilled from the misery of our parents. And so we did and we did so with great _zeal._ ”

Jake breathes in deep, fingers drumming on his knees.

“So…what did you do? The drugs I mean.” You know everything about drugs for trolls but you’re not sure about humans. Old Earth drugs are difficult to maintain on New Earth due to the difference in resources. Cocaine was impossible to achieve with the cocoa leaf being extinct.  

“We were privileged children so we thought we deserved a drug of a higher quality; more bang per the boon. It was three of us, a ridiculous bunch wearing motley colors and dying our hair in bright high saturated shades to offend our parent’s drab black suits and professionalism. We all claimed to be madly in love with each other, in a polyamorous way. We touted the realism of our feelings though, especially in the presence of our conservative parents. We were young, wild, and incredibly foolish. We were teens…”

Jake shakes his head with a sigh.

“…my girlfriend at that time was a plucky lass with vibrant pink hair and bright blue eyes; the heir to a baking empire. Her co-girlfriend’s hair was blue and she had a taste for liquor and fine furs; the heir to a dynasty of brewers who had been shipping malt liquor all over New Earth for centuries. What sweethearts they were…at least in the beginning of things. I strain to remember their names now. Joan and Troxi? I wouldn’t know. My memory from those days is…frazzled at best. It all seems like a dream now, or nightmares in neon.”

He nods to you, “Yes. So. The drug. It was a very expensive drug for many reasons. For one thing, it could only be made by certain people so that it wouldn’t kill its users on the first hit. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell what they used to make it…some distillation of soporific sludge and a candy red opiate. It was bright red…” Jake’s eyes widen, “…as cherry red as your mutant blood, swirled with something green as sopor.”

You raise your eyebrow, “What kind of fucking drug is that?”

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you the ingredients or its proper name but…Joan said it was called…Sweet JuJu and that among all the hallucinogens, energizers, and pick-me-ups…this concoction was _highest_ _king_. It could not be traced in the body. It could be shipped around innocently in a hundred different forms—in pills dissolved in soda, as mints, as chocolate, as ice cream, as cakes, and cotton candy.

“My first taste…the three of us laid in a den laden with opiate-laden smoke. Men and women sat around with faces painted green and red. They wore fake little plastic wings and ridiculous bright clothes. They were an underground gang that peddled ornate and difficult drugs, a group of chemists and educated outcasts who rejected every social clique and calling—neglecting social glass, hemotype, gender, and species.

 

  

“They called themselves the Cherubs. According to Troxi, she had befriended the leader online. In exchange for a large sum of money, they would deliver the most rare and powerful drugs imaginable.  

“They were the most unpleasant and yet incredibly juvenile people you could ever meet.

“They giggled, smoked hashish, and wondered if we would die from our first taste of their Sweet JuJu. Joan dared me with the drug in its most tempting form—a massive lollipop big as your head, Karkat. I’d never seen such a ridiculous yet enticing thing. She wanted me to join her. Her candy blue eyes were dilated, already given over to the drug.

“One lick and I was transformed.

“My old self was unmade; replaced by a maniac and easily excitable boy who was ready for any chore or challenge. The world became bright gold and red. I could hear the squeaks of horns and everything was sugary, bright, and delicious tasting. I painted my skin in the shade of a peach and claimed with enjoyable mania that was going to convert everyone to my newfound religion in the JuJu.

“And that was my addiction: it was church. It was god. It was mother. It was father. It was my lover. And that was the Sweet JuJu to us all.

“Everything was altered under the influence of the JuJu. The ground was polychromatic and the sky equally so. Little green angels guided my path and whispered wisdom in my ear. Poor scrawled scribbles were given life and creativity and imagination flowed through me—no, I _was_ imagination personified. It was glorious and wonderful and I wanted it to be that way for all eternity if I was imbued with that power…that…that _great_ …and _terrible_ power…”

You swallow. You’ve heard and read some drug trip stories but nothing ever like this. This one takes the cake. Or the lollipop. Whatever.

“I’m guessing it had a bad after-effect?” you ask.

“Like you could never _fathom_ , my grey chum…” Jake runs his callused fingers along his jawline, “While the JuJu works your limbs and your brain in its candy coated fantasies, your body is still running around and doing as it pleases. Then when the effect fades, you never recall what happened in reality. After my first taste, I awoke in the den, unclothed with a man I had never met before; my girlfriends nowhere to be found. The Cherubs encored my performance. Their leader beckoned me, saying that my dalliances with strangers gave inspiration to her writing. She temped me with hashish to continue acting…acting as her… _muse_.”

 “I was a self-professed extreme liberal but like a yellow flash though the dark, my inner coward showed. I grabbed my clothes and fled, not even seeking the others. I hid in my home for a day or so before reality seemed far too dull, far less whimsical. I messaged Joan, not even caring what had happened to _her._ I quizzed her on how much boon it would take to get a longer dosage. And this…this continued on for _years_ but money was not an issue. At least then.”

“So,” you say, “you got sober when you ran out of money?”

“No, but oh I wish I _had…_ ” Jake responds, “When I ran out of money, I stole from my parents. When that dried up, I stole from my parent’s friends. They were wealthy. They could afford it; or that was my rationalization of my misdeeds. And when that dried up, I mugged people. I held up fuel stations and convenience stores. I followed people to their cars and laid in eager wait to take what I needed. I had a gun and most often they did not, but to me it was a worthy sacrifice.

“I’d give the money to the Cherubs and in exchange I got the drug the three of us craved. I dropped out of school and moved into the den with my supposed girlfriends. We spent our days in a haze of drugs and rattling out middling poetry; saying we were disregarded prophets of a monotonous generation, being led about the nose by our parents.

“In reality, we were tethered to the Cherubs and their illicit activities. The gang leader loved us though. JuJu’s wrecked my memory something awful. I can no longer remember if she was a _human_ pretending to be a _troll_ or a _troll_ pretending to be _human_. She was full of quirks and loved to play extravagant games with us. She got great joy out of watching people… _touch_ and copulate and write about it in her massive tome, no doubt filled to the brim with the humiliations of others. She herself would never participate. Just watch…watch and scribble away with sudden fervor.

“The things she’d want us to do…I-I can’t remember, nor do we have the time to get into _all_ of it but…it was a combination of all things imaginative and yet appallingly unpleasant. Her brother was no better; her supposed ‘twin’ though I doubt the two were truly related. I suspect he was a mutant or feral troll who wishes to be human or something equally strange. Both of them were bloody nutter…

“It was like being under the control of two deranged children…with my girlfriends as their courtly fools and myself as an attack dog—spurred on my addiction with the Cherubs holding my leash. The drug made all the insults to our person distant though; made it tolerable. In our minds, we were king and queens. As long as the drug kept flowing, we would never say a word against our kind green-faced masters.”

“So…what made you clean up then? Did the Cherubs close up shop?” you ask.

“I _wish_ that had been the case…” Jake clenches his fist, “…I…one day the Cherub leader was bored and demanded we play a game of wits instead of the usual discourteous tedium. We were all hours into the swirling lights, music, and colors of the JuJu. As always, I had my pistol…so I offered William Tell. Troxi offered to be my target. We had no apples in our possession but the Cherubs were fond of pumpkins, so we used that in its stead...”

You grimace; not liking where this story is now headed…

“I hesitated but Troxi was insistant. She said…I will always remember what she said. _Come on, Jake. See if you can shoot this pumpkin off my head. Aren’t you the fastest gun in Young Britain?_ ”

Jake swallows,

“S-see if you can…can shoot this pumpkin…off my head, J-Jakie…so of course I tried. I tried and I…I missed because I was stoned and she was wobbling around with that giant… _bloody_ _gourd_ on her _head_ …”

“I didn’t realize what I had done until Troxi didn’t get back up again. I thought jello and liquid candy cane was coming out her skull. Not even the smell of death could sober me up. I tried to eat the blood and brains because I was that… _out_ of it. Joan was sobering up though and she gave this…heart-wrenching scream .Then…things were…hectic. I was still high, still not realizing what I’d done. I didn’t piece things together until it was far too late. I was close to Joan but Troxi and I were…were very…”

“Well…that was when I decided enough was enough. The Cherubs had apparently been fond of Troxi too as I was cast out, like an angel from heaven. I walked to the nearest police box and phoned for to be taken away, as I had murdered my girlfriend and was an addict. I did not struggle when they came for me. I never saw Joan again.”

“Did…did you do time?”

“No. The system failed to properly process me. For one thing, Troxi’s body could not be found. I suspect the Cherubs melted her down or buried her in an unmarked grave somewhere. Secondly, I was human, male, Orthodoxian baptized, a native of the island, and from a prominent old money family. They weren’t going to stick me in prison with rapists and serial killers. I went straight into rehab and after a brutal year, I was clean. My family had relocated from bankruptcy and shame, so I was alone in the world. I came to New Jack City to restart anew. I spent time caring for my ailing grandmother and helping those along South Street. I…I do everything I can to make amends for what I did in the past. The guilt always hangs over me. Some days it’s very oppressive…but it’s necessary. To stay clean.”

“Does… _Dirk_ know this?” You wonder if Dave does as well. Oh gods you’ve only know this family for two days and you’re already learning terrible secrets.

“Yes. They both know. I tell everyone I can to make sure that I’m always in check. Sweet JuJu may be one thing but addiction in general is very powerful. The only time I drank alcohol was at my wedding and it was a very little; and I hate…I _hate_ lying to others about what I’ve done.”

“So…why are you telling me this? I mean, I’m just a troll.”

Jake looks at you, “You know what I’m capable of now. I’ve told you the truth now you tell me the truth: how do you _really_ feel about Dave? Because I would rather not see him heartbroken after he’s worked so hard to be comfortable around people. You should honestly know what you’re getting into if you stay though. No one is really perfect or deserves to be put on a pedestal in a relationship. We all have failings because we’re all people, no matter the species.”

Your eyes widen. Oh. This is the test. Everything else was just pop quizzes. This is the _mid_ - _term_.

You shrug, awkwardly, “I don’t know. I just…I’ve never really been in a relationship but I do like being around him. I don’t have to be uptight about how I look or what I say because he just sort of shrugs off my...insanity? I don’t know. I’m shitty with words; like when it comes to insults, its poetry in motion. When it comes to talking to people in a romantic way, I might as well be shitting on a canvas and call it modern art. But I don’t know. He makes me feel sort of…special? I mean I’m just a short little mutantblood. I’m not exactly rare or special. It’s nice that he…pays…attention…to me.”

Oh gods you sound so moronic and you’re blushing like an embarrassed little kid trying to give his crush a card for Flush Day. Why… _why_ is your life becoming a bad soap opera, or a regular reality TV show? 

Jake scrutinizes your face. You’ve seen the same glare from your French teacher when you forgot all your numbers and everything about New France culture in the middle of an oral test. After three minutes, Jake smiles.

“Yeah,” he concludes, “I think you two will do just fine.” He turns the hovertruck back on and says, “We’ll help you move in tomorrow. Do trolls need a recuperacoon?”

“Nah, I’m good without it once I have tablets handy.” You say.

Gods, you could use a fucking nap after all of this.


End file.
